Well Intended

I've lost touch with someone I used to be very close with. Believe me, this is all for the best — it did not, as they say, end well. But I can't escape those idle moments when I think of her, and wonder, and from time to time I somehow end up reading a column she writes for the her small local newspaper.

I think I fell in love with her words. That was how we met, in a restless flurry of written words. And she had a blog, where she revealed herself to everyone in secret — but, of course, I knew it was her. Her voice was distinctive and personal, and when using it she seemed less afraid to confront the world that had closed in around her.

I thought it might be fun (mischievous, but fun) to search for the clues of what had become of her life over the past several years. What a disappointment to find that her work has become almost a caricature. I know, this all smacks of bitterness, and there is that, must confess. It's just that her work has all the same themes, even the same words, that I remember so well. It's as though these years have never passed.

In each column she'll confess her weakness, share an experience from her past, and aspire to be much more noble and virtuous. And over and over and over again. But it's not only cliched, it's so much less personal — it's not her voice, it's this superficial, idealized vision of who she wants a reader to believe she is. Granted, a small town newspaper might not be the best opportunity to share your secrets, or yourself — and anyone who knew her, really knew her, we knew that she was anything but virtuous. That was part of the fun. (That more than smacks of bitterness, so the less said, the better.) This just seems so hollow by comparison.

(Oh, and on the oft chance you should happen to read this? You were never the one who repaired your broken window or replaced your car battery.)